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COPYRIGHT DEPOSHi 



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BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE 

Rimes to be Read. Miscellaneous 
Verses. Cloth, $1.50; Leather, $2.00. 
Chronicles of the Little Tot. Poems 
of Childhood. Cloth, $1.50; Leather, 
$2.00. 

How Did You Die? One of Mr. 
Cooke's most popular "Impertinent 
Poems." Printed on a card in 
colors, 11x14, 25 cents. 

Impertinent Poems (Forbes & 
Co.), Cloth, 75 Cents. 

Dodge Publishing Company, 
23 East 20th Street, New York. 



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Chronicles of th< 
Little Tot 



Edmund Vance Cooke 



Illustrations by 
Clyde O. De Land 



New York 

Dodge Publishing Company 

23 East 20th Street 



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Copyright, 1905, by 
Dodge Publishing Company. 



.1BRARY at JOSiSStSS 

JUL 21 1905 

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COHY B. ' 



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[Chronicles of the Little Tot] 
First Edition, June, 1905. 



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NOTE. 

Of the poems in this collection, two have appeared 
in "A Patch of Pansies," and two in "Rimes to be 
Read." These are included in present volume be- 
cause it is thought desirable to keep the child-verse 
of the writer grouped under the same covers as 
much as possible. 

Courtesy credit for the remaining verses is ex- 
tended to Lippincott's, The Delineator, Book-Lovers, 
Success, N. E. A. Syndicate, Saturday Evening Post, 
Youth's Companion, Chicago Times-Herald, Cleve- 
land Press, Harper's Bazar, Puck, and St. Nicholas, 
which publications first presented them in print. 

E. V. C. 



DEDICATION 




To Their Mother and These 



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CONTENTS. 

FAGE 

The Cradlers n 

The Creepers 25 

The Cruisers 37 

The Climbers 55 

In Remembrance 105 



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The Cradlers. 



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THROWING THE SHOE. 

THE bride was ringed and the bride was kissed, 
As pink and proud as a queen of tourney; 
The groom was fuming the train was missed, 
So forth they fared for the wedding journey. 
Just then, with a peal of parting laughter, 
The bridesmaid clattered an old shoe after. 

The old shoe lay in the garden grass, 
While the lovers loved and teased and pouted, 

And when they returned it had come to pass 
A strange new shrub in the yard had sprouted! 

Next spring, when the apple trees were blowing, 

A beautiful bloom on the shrub was growing. 

The summer was fine and the fall was fair; 

The fruits of the orchard trees had ripened; 
And the new tree labored and bore — a pair, 

Which paid to the year its little stipend — 
Twin little fruit of the softest leather 
Hung and swung in the autumn weather. 

Year after year there was never a lack; 
There were ones and twos, there were fives and 
sevens; 
At first they were white, then red, then black, 

And often the bridegroom cried "Thank Heavens! 
Blessings be on that Junetime laughter 
And the seedling shoe which the maid threw after!" 
(i3) 




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THE INTRUDER. 

HE is so little to be so bold! 
Why, he came to the house (so I've been 
told) 
And his very first call 
Sufficed to install 

The waif on our premises, once for all. 
Somehow or other the rogue got in 
And claims to be of our kith and kin! 

He is so little to be so loved! 

He came unbooted, ungarbed, ungloved, 

Naked and shameless, 

Beggared and blameless, 

And, for all he could tell us, even nameless 1 

Yet every one in the house bows down 

As if the mendicant wore a crown. 

He is so little to be so loud! 

O, I own that I should be wondrous proud 

If I had a tongue, 

All swiveled and swung, 

With a double-back-action, twin-screw lung, 

Which brought me victual and keep and care, 

Whenever I shook the surrounding air. 

He is so little to be so sweet! 

You can see that he wouldn't count much as meat. 

(14) 








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Seven pounds or eight 

Isn't very much weight 

To be sold on the hoof, yet I dare state 

Some extravagant buyer might be found 

To offer as much as a dime the pound. 

He is so little to be so large! 

Why, a train of cars or a whale-back barge 

Couldn't carry the freight 

Of the monstrous weight 

Of all of his qualities, good and great. 

And though one view is as good as another, 

Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother! 



(i5) 



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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




THE MARVEL. 

A DAINTY flower has formed to flesh, 
A blossom from some fairy tree 
Which keeps its tender spirit fresh 
Upon the dews of Arcady, 
And bore the sweetest bud that ever was or is-to- 
be. 

The zephyred breath which wafts across 

The lips which tempt the honey-bee! 
The tumble of the silken floss, 

Which seems a halo, though, to me, 
Which frames the softest light that ever shone on 
land or sea! 

The pink which shames the rose's leaf, 

The purity of neck and knee, 
The crinkle of its little grief, 

The dimple of its dainty glee, 
The fairest, sweetest, purest, best! — 'tis all of these 
to me. 



(16) 



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OPULENCE. 

THE wee, wet kiss against my lips, 
The warm head in its shoulder nest. 
The little legs across my chest, 
The froward little finger tips; 
These common riches of the race 
Are past all gains of pelf and place. 

The sword may conquer throne and state, 
The song may win the poet's bays, 
Finance may make another great 
Or learning widen out the ways; 
Choose as you will! My choice is best; 
The little life across my breast. 

Tho' Shakespeare were a petty name 
To mine and Plato were my fool; 
Tho' kings were subjects of my rule 
And nations pawns to play my game; 
How poor I were, had I not pressed 
This little life against my breast! 



(17) 



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THE SUPERLATIVE. 

HOW shall we say it? How express 
The measuring words of the measureless? 
For 

it's just as sweet as a baby. 

There! 
How else can I measure it? how compare? 
The honeyed dew on the morning clover? 
The song of the lark where the blue bends over? 
What the advantage, or what the hope 
Of any hyperbole, metaphor, trope? 
Can any of these express the thrall 
Of a baby's sweetness? Not at all. 
Image and simile rise and fall, 
But sweet as a baby tells it all. 



Ah! how define the superlative elf 
But to use its own superlative self, 
So 

it's just as dear as a baby. 



There! 



The last word's said and the rest is air. 
If love be joy, does any joy cling 
More close to the heart than this wee thing? 
If love be service, is not this mite 
Served by us gladly, day and night? 

<i8) 



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O, some love place and a courtier-crawl, 
And some love name and a soldier-brawl, 
And some love fame and a poet-scrawl, 
But the love of a baby tops them all. 



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CRADLE SONG * 

O sleep the corn is sinking, 
For heavy hangs its head; 
The timid flowers are shrinking 
From darkness in their bed. 

And evening breezes flocking 
Like gentle angels blest 

Come softly, softly rocking 
The corn and flowers to rest. 

And as the flowerets shrinking, 

So timid, too, art thou, 

And as the corn-heads sinking, 

So nods thy dear head now. 

And sounds of evening winging 

Like little angels blest 
Come softly, softly singing 

My darling one to rest. 



From the German of Hoffman von Fallersleben. 

(20) 



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UNDER ORDERS. 

OH, I am the fag of the infantry, 
The raw recruit of the company. 
From the bivouac, ready for night alarms, 
I stumble up at the cry "To arms!" 
I hurry to where The Commander lies 
And Present — Arms! to still his cries. 
"Halt! Beware! 
Who goes there?" 
"Thy father's spirit doomed, at sight, 
For a certain time to walk the night." 

Oh, I am the jest of the promenade, 
Shivering there on undress parade. 
The Commander cries "Right shoulder — shift! 
Attention — father!" Steady and swift, 
I hasten to heed his every whim 
And Carry — Arms! and likewise him. 
"Halt! Take care! 
Who goes there?" 
I send my song across the dark: 
" 'Tis the nightingale and not the lark." 

In fatigue dress, flowing loose and white, 
I drill through the crawling hours of night. 



(21) 



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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




I "Forward— march!" I "Charge!" I "Wheel!" 
I "Double— quick!" but still I feel 
The Commander, all unmollified, 
Conceives me still unqualified. 
"Who goes there? 
Stand and swear!" 
"How sharper than a serpent's tooth 
To have a sleepless child, forsooth!" 



(22) 




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BAWL-IN-THE-FACE. 

UGH! ugh! little Bawl-in-the-face, 
Whooping the whoop of the vanished race, 
Tell me when did you come to town, 
With toes turned in, 
And a red, red skin, 
And blanket hanging down? 
How have I harmed you, and where and when? 
Or have you been at the bottle again? 

Wah! wah! little Lungs-in-a-race, 

Leading each other a terrible chase, 

Tell me! when will the trouble cease? 

Why show your wrath 

On the wild war-path 

These piping times of peace? 

I'm doing the ghost-dance all I can, 

And hush! here comes the medicine-man. 

Boh! boh! little Boss-of-the-place, 

I believe I'll brave you to your face. 

Though you've my scalp and mama's, too, 

'Tis my belief 

You are neither chief 

Nor brave, so boh! to you. 

Oh, yes, I see that your head is flat, 

But where is your scalp-lock, tell me that! 



(23) 






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The Creepers. 






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THE BABY ON THE FLOOR. 



"HEN Adam first knuckled the sand from 
his eyes 

And planted the clay of his feet on its loam, 
The Garden looked not half so fair, I surmise, 
As the Eden whose commoner spelling is Home. 

And even when woman came onto the stage 
And he vowed to this Eve he would ever be 
knight, 
And he worked not a lick, though the world was his 
wage, 
Even then he was minus the chief est delight. 

Paradise never was. With a stroke of my quill 
I prove the whole story absurd on its face. 

Paradise never was, you may preach as you will, 
With never a baby in. all of the place. 

And yet I recall that a creature there was 
Which went on its belly and ate of the dust. 

(I hope you will pardon this language, because 
In quoting one uses the words which one must.) 

And lo! in my Eden a creature I find 
(How very peculiar the passion for pets!) 

Which bellies along and is sadly inclined 
To eat of the dust every chance that it gets! 

(37) 



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As wise as a serpent and minus the sting, 
And harmless, beside, as the scriptural dove: 

In my bosom I warm it — this wrigglesome thing — 
Which long ago wriggled its way to my love. 

It wriggles and curls 'round the roots of my heart, 

So I say it again, as I said it before, 
The Eden of Adam was doomed from the start 

Without a wee baby to roll on the floor. 



(28) 



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THE GRAND LAMA, JR. 

AND would you learn the potent cause 
Which yields me this profound content, 
The hidden working of whose laws 

Is boundlessly beneficent? 
Know, then, it contemplates no plan 
Of faith in God, or trust in man. 
It lies beyond all mere opinion 
Of Arian dogma, or Arminian, 
Of Calvin's creed, or creed Socinian, 
Of Kantian logic, or Darwinian. 
And yet serene and calm and high 
It raises me. The world goes by 

And joy may pass, or woe may come, 
Yet with a mild and placid eye 

I sit — and suck my thumb. 

Yet was this calm, Nirvanic height 
Not compassed at a single bound. 
When first these eyes beheld the light 

And on this planet gazed around, 
I viewed full many, a wrong and ill 
Which would not let my soul be still. 
The grievous question rose eternally 
How oft one ought to dine diurnally, 
Which pabulum would soothe internally, 
Or which cause colic most infernally. 



(29) 



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And then The Solace came to dry 
My tears, to still my bitter cry, 

To bid my agony be dumb. 
And all was well with me, for I 

Had learned — to suck my thumb. 

The world around I plainly see 

Is trouble-tossed and passion-rent. 
I would that it might learn from me 

The law to soothe its sad lament. 
Yea, even I see my honored sire 
Beset by worry, grief, or ire, 
Nor can he find an absolution 
In Stoic teaching, or Confucian, 
In Plato's thought, or wit of Lucian, 
Spencerian lore, or Rosicrucian. 
Yet here I sit beneath his eye 
And silently exemplify 

A rule of life to overcome 
His every woe. I wonder why 

He will not — suck his thumb! 



(30) 



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BABYKIN-BOYKIN-BOO ! 
(A Nonsense Rhyme.) 

DID the baskety woman a-sweeping the sky 
Discover the Babykin there? 
Did she tumble him down from his nest on 
high 
Through all of the sky-blue air? 
Did she find there was never a room to spare 

In the toe of her sister's shoe? 
Surely that was enough to scare 
The Babykin-Boykin-Boo! 

Did the moon-man give him a half a crown 

And tell him he'd better be born? 
And with Jacky and Jill was he tumbled down 

One summery, shiny morn? 
Or did Babykin-Boykin come to town 

On the cow with the crumpled horn? 
Did the Babykin lie on her back asleep 

On a mattress of genuine hair? 
And did Simon the simple and Little Bopeep 

Come skipping along to the fair? 
Did they blatantly blow a terrible blare 

On the horn of the Little Boy Blue, 
To wake him up with an awful scare? 

Poor Babykin-Boykin-Boo! 



(3i) 



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But if Babykin-Boykin now will stay, 

We'll feed him on victuals and drink, 
And the Muffety maiden will give him some whey 

And a pat of her curds, I think. 
And the toes of the Banbury dame shall play, 

And her fingery bells go "chink!" 
And the hey-diddle cow shall jump in the air 

As high as she used to do. 
Oh, dear me! but she must not scare 

Our Babykin-Boykin-Boo! 



(32) 



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JANUS, JR. 

WHINY and Shiny are two little elves 
Who have a strange habit of swapping 
themselves. 
Perhaps you are visiting Shiny, when pop! 
Along comes old Whiny and tells you to stop. 
And you're willing to stop, for while Shiny is jolly, 
Poor Whiny is mad of a sad melancholy. 
Go 'way, Whiny! 
Come back, Shiny! 
Come back, little Shiny, I see you there peeping 
From back of old Whiny. And Shiny comes leaping. 

Gladsome and Badsome are certainly twins, 
But one of them quits where the other begins. 
When one of them peeps from a little boy's face, 
The other one takes himself off of the place. 
Wherever the first is the other can't stay; 
If the second comes back, then the first runs away. 

Go 'way, Badsome! 

Come back, Gladsome! 
For Gladsome is just round the corner and hoping 
His owner will call him. And back he comes loping. 



(33) 



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Cheerful and Tearful are curious creatures; 
They are nothing alike, yet they have the same fea- 
tures. 
But Tearful's a bad little imp who annoys 
The papas of girls and the mamas of boys, 
For he blurs the bright eyes of the sunniest darling 
And frets a sweet voice till he gets it to snarling. 

Go 'way, Tearful! 

Come back, Cheerful! 
For Cheerful is brimming with music and laughter 
And wherever he comes, Sunshine follows him after. 



(34) 



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THE SONG OF THE SOCKS AND SHOES. 

k HE little pink pigs have been rooting around, 
Rooting around all night, 
Though I warned them well they must slum- 
ber sound 
Till the blink of the morning light; 
I warned them well, as the owner I gowned 

And snuggled them warm and tight. 
But though I told them they mustn't peep out, 
The little pink pigs have been rooting about; 
I warned them one and I warned them ten, 
So nowthey must go in the sock-and-shoe pen, 
The pen of the sock and shoe. 

First the sock and then the shoe; it's nearly eight 
o'clock! 

Lock the little pigs in the sock, 
Shoo the little pigs in the shoe, 
Den the little pigs in the pen, 

The pen of the shoe and sock. 

The little pink pigs, with a wriggle and dive, 

All under the gown they run, 
While the owner watches me coax and drive, 

And giggles a gale at the fun, 
And squeals as I swoop on a drove of five 

And capture the five in one. 



(35) 



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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT, 



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Oh, the little pink pigs have been rooting about, 

Though I warned them well they mustn't peep out, 

So I capture five and I capture ten 

And drive them into the sock-and-shoe pen, 

The pen of the sock and shoe. 

First the sock and then the shoe, and then the shoe 
and sock; 

Lock the little pigs in the sock, 
Shoo the little pigs in the shoe, 
Den the little pigs in the pen, 

It's almost eight o'clock! 



(36) 



-1M, 



The Cruisers, 



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Cruise of tfje 

Little tEot 



>RAWN BY BESSIE COLLINS PEASE 



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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




THE CRUISE OF THE GOOD SHIP 
LITTLE TOT. 

DO you know the ocean called Nurseyfloor? 
You think it a safe sea, like as not, 
But the Rug-Reef lies in a dangerous spot, 
And the Table-Leg and the Open-Door 

Are perilous rocks for the "Little Tot"; 
Unbuoyed, unbelled, and unmarked by a light 
To pilot the venturous mariner right. 
Yet the "Little Tot" bravely prepares to start, 
And weighing anchor at Papa's Knee, 
And pointing a course to take the lee 
Of Bedside Ledges, she studies her chart, 

And to Mamma's Lap Harbor forth sails she. 
And it's yo ho ho, and all hands stand by! 
And it's steer by the light in the Harbor eye. 

She touches the port of Grandma's chair, 
And all the inhabitants cheer with glee, 
Hip, hip, hip and a three times three I 

She provisions herself with candy there 
And turns her prow to the open sea. 

She waves farewell to the friendly shore 

And sails where never she sailed before. 



(39) 




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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




A lurch to port and a starboard list; 
Steady, there, steady; keep her straight! 
'Tis a terrible sea to navigate. 
A stagger, a plunge, and a sudden twist; 
She is going aground as sure as fate! 
And Mamma's Lap Harbor and Papa's Knee 
Pull the good ship "Little Tot" out of the sea! 



(40) 



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CHRONICLE D] ^- T _, " i T XI 3 TOT. 



THE TALK OF TWO-YEAR OLD. 



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|ITYPAT, pitypat," over the floor; 

'Knickaknock, knickaknock," heard at the 
door; 

And the small, soft tones 
That the Two-year-old owns 
Cry the curious cry "Dubbydo'! dubby do'!" 
'Tis a mystical tongue, but I happen to know 
That it means (as nearly as words can state; 
'Tis a difficult thing to quite translate), 
"Father dear, I am here and dislike to wait. 
Will you kindly open the door for me? 
For I can't quite reach the knob, you see." 

In prances Two-year-old, charging my knee, 

Filled to the brim with imperious glee. 

"Hin up!" is her cry, 

Which I cannot deny, 

For I read what she means by the light in her eye. 

"Father dear" (I interpret), "pray heed my behest 

To be placed on your knee, there to sit and to rest. 

And, furthermore, do me the favor, I pray, 

To grant my demand with no vexing delay." 

I obey and the Two-year-old promptly demands 
All things in the sweep of her plundering hands. 
"Taw dat?" cry the lips 
And the pink finger-tips, 

(41) 



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And of course it is clear that they mean "Father 

dear, 
What is that cylindrical rod in your ear? 
Is it merely a method of dressing your hair, 
Or has it some deeper significance there?" 

I humbly explain how a pencil is used 

And Two-year-old deigns to be highly amused. 

"Me! me!" she demands, 

Reaching wide-fingered hands, 

Whose intent, plainly meant, is to say, "Sir, I'm sent, 

By the monosyllabicist I represent 

To bid you deliver that marvelous treasure, 

Or suffer the pain of our deepest displeasure." 

She grasps the stiletto, unsheathed from my ear, 

And then like a Bayard, devoid of all fear 

And ripe for a row, 

Bends back and cries "Dow!" 

Which signifies, "Sir, 'tis my wish to retire 

From the throne of your knee. I've achieved my 

desire 
And I crave a seclusion, with nobody nigh 
To prevent me from running this point in my eye. 
And I also decline to allow a complaint 
Should my pleasure impel me to suck off the paint." 



(42) 



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"Oh, Two-year-old, Two-year-old, hark to my cry, 

Prithee yield me the weapon and poke not your eye !" 

"Na! na! na!" comes the word 

And I blench as 'tis heard, 

Yet gird up my courage and do the rash deed, 

As Two-year-old curses me, root, branch and seed. 

To the portal she flies, as she cries "DubbydoM" 

And the pregnant portent of that accent I know. 

"I loathe thee and leave thee," it says. "Nevermore 

Will I rattle the knob of thy traitorous door." 

And 'tis fully five minutes, or possibly ten, 
Ere Two-year-old comes for admittance again. 



(43) 




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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




THE FACE IN THE WINDOW. 



I.— GOOD-BYE. 

A LITTLE face shines at the window-sill, 
Like a morning sun peeps over a hill, 
And I, looking up from the path below, 
See the wee face cloud as I turn to go. 
And the clouds melt into a mist which tries 
(Such a troublesome mist!) to blur my eyes 
That my good-bye glances may scarcely see 
The little sun-face which clouds for me. 



II.— EN ROUTE. 

When the frosted stars of the winter night 

Look down on the dead earth shrouded white; 

When the sun-god sends his quickening breath 

To grant new life to the clay-cold death; 

When the spring flower turns in its mossy bed 

And up from the pillow lifts its head; 

When the wood on the edge of the sky is traced, 

Like shimmering azure fringed and laced; 

I see their beauty — and also see 

The face which the window holds for me. 



(44) 



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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. f 



III.— OBEISANCE. 

O, whether on land or whether on sea 
That little sun-face still shines for me, 
And I am a Parsee and worship the sun 
Which symbols the shine of my own little one, 
Which enlightens my night, which illumines my 

noon, 
Whether clouded or clear be the sun and the moon. 
And lo! as the sun down the West's abyss 
Sinks slowly and sends me his good-night kiss, 
I am sending it back in the hope that he 
Is kissing the face in the window for me. 



(45) 



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THE TAX LIST. 



OH, Mr. Assessor, 
Why, what a bad guesser 
You seem, as I look at your list! 
How poorly you measure 
The weight of my treasure! 
How many the items you've missed! 

"Am I horrid with hogs?" 

"Am I rabid with dogs?" 

"Am I burdened with horses and cattle?" 

Pish! tush! sir, I own 

The best stock ever known, 

And its brand is the bottle and rattle. 

You have spaces for wheels 

And for automobiles, 

For carriages, high-carts and low-carts; 

I possess none of these, 

But I'd like, if you please, 

To list my assortment of go-carts. 



Bonds? Stocks? Ha! I see 

You're a stranger to me. 

And "Money in banks?" Ah, assessor, 

I'm with you at last, 

But the banks are locked fast 

And we keep them upstairs on the dresser. 

(46) 



=Da 




What else do I own? 

Why, I'd have it be known 

My riches would dazzle a Croesus;— 

Books, tattered and torn, 

Toys, battered and worn, 

And little gowns coming to pieces. 

Little heel-holy hose, 

Little shoes with the toes 

Stubbing through, which is one way of knowing 

My blessings increase, 

So my soul is at peace 

And my God-blessed riches are growing! 



(47) 



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CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TC 

THE SPRING-CLEANING BABY. 

I CAN'T imagine what I've done, 
Or why I'm so neglected; 
Once I was loved by everyone, 
But now I'm scarce respected. 
They used to titilate my ear 

With pretty names, devoid of meaning, 
But now the only names I hear 
Are "Now Be Good! Spring Cleaning!" 

My cry once made the household run 

To offer the attention due me, 
But now I bawl and squall, and none 

Appears to even hearken to me. 
I sit upon the floor while they 

Sail by, with heavy loads careening. 
When I protest, they only say: 

"Be Good! Out Way! Spring Cleaning!" 

Why, once they used to watch me so 

It almost made my brain grow dizzy; 
'Twas "Ah, ah, ah!" and "Oh, no, no!" 

But, yesterday, while they were busy, 
I ate two tacks, some moldy bread, 

A piece of soap and half a greening, 
And when they caught me, all they said 

Was "Do Be Good! Spring Cleaning!" 

(48) 



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Why, once they flew at every speck 

Upon my face with fearful rigor, 
And once they grabbed me by the neck 

And wiped my nose with needless vigor; 
But now I play in mud or dust, 

And no one dreams of intervening; 
It's odd, but I suppose that's just 

What's meant by this "Spring Cleaning!" 



(49) 



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AN ARBITER OF TITLES. 



I. 



HAVE you been so well commended, 
So attended, or befriended, 
That this maiden condescended 
To receive you, bowed and bended? 
She, the proud Miss Michaella 
Consuella Arabella, 
The F. F. V., the D. A. R., 
The bas bleu and the social star! 
She's toute au fait and comme il faut 
And all her words and actions show 
Exactly thus, precisely so. 
Particularly does she claim 
A nice observance of her name 
And signs it fully, "Michaella 
Consuella Arabella," 
For less than that she does not like. 
Yet when this maiden goes to see 
The Little Tot, she's glad to be 
Just plain "Aunt Mike." 



II. 

Have you met that dame of graces 
Whose aristocratic face is 
Finely wrought as priceless lace is, 
Or the rare of rarest vases? 
(50) 



^ 



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She, a Van der Stuyphen-Stuyphen 

Of the bluest-blooded hyphen! 

She, the cream of richest cream, 

La plus grande dame des grandissimes, 

In the halls of whose colonial 

Ancestry the ceremonial 

Pales the ducal and baronial! 

Particularly is she set 

And rigid in the etiquette 

Which doth hedge the cherished hyphen 

Linking Stuyphen unto Stuyphen, 

'Tis the crest and oriflamme 

Of her race and place, yet when 

The Little Tot's her guest, why then 

She's just plain "Gram." 

HI. 

Visiting among your betters, 
Have you met that man of letters 
To whom all of us are debtors, 
Him whose total title fetters 
All the alphabets of story 
To express the half its glory? 
For he's A. B. C. to X. Y. Z.; 
He's P. D. Q. and Q. E. D., 
Famous, flattered, celebrated, 
Feasted, banqueted and feted, 
Ribanded and decorated! 

(5i) 




=90= 







CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 




And he's proud of his degrees, 
Of his D's and double D's, 
Scientific, civil, moral, 
For he is so decked with laurel 
That he's heavy at the top. 
Yet when he views the Little Tot 
All other titles are forgot 
Except plain "Pop!" 



(52) 



: =£Xk 




THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. 

I LOVE to view the sea at night, 
Torn by the storm-king's awesome might. 
The wild waves lead the fierce attack; 
They meet the wind which beats them back 

With cries of mad commotion: 
And I — I think of nights agone 
When Peter raged with wind upon 

His stomach, like this troubled ocean. 

I love to call the immortal roll, 

Of history's emblazoned scroll, 

To read of revolution's hour 

When men go mad with wrath and power 

And every soul's seething. 
It holds me in a mute amaze 
And minds me of the fretful days 

Which little Peter had while teething. 

I love the accents of the stage, 
The noble grief, the rhythmic rage. 
Oft have I viewed the tragic queen 
Portray Camille in that sad scene 

Which marks her mournful taking-off. 
It sets my soul upon the rack 
And brings such fervent memories back 

Of little Peter's whooping-cough. 



(53) 







4 



^Q= 



CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 





I love to lift my wondering eyes 
To view the marvels of the skies. 
Who tinted them that perfect hue? 
What Artist stretched that boundless blue 

Upon his myriad easels? 
What cosmic brush was this which swirled 
Planet on planet, world on world, 

As thick as little Peter's measles! 



(54) 










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The Climbers 



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Wtjt Cfnlbfjoob 

of spring 



IV BESSIE COLLINS PE.A£ 



XXL 




THE CHILDHOOD OF SPRING. 

WHEN shine and shadow play across the sky 
And daisies hold their haloed heads on high, 
Then all the earth is as a little child, 
Smilingly tearful, boisterously mild, 
Then drops the husk of years from off the soul 
And long-lost freedom in us seems to sing; 
Ah, earth was sick, but Spring has made it whole, 
And life was old, but childhood comes with Spring. 



(57) 



=DQ= 



tf^= 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




TWO LITTLE SERVING-MEN. 

TWO little serving-men have I, 
And one is strong and very spry. 
He loves to hammer, plane, and saw, 
To write, and, sometimes, even draw. 
He takes my hat and hangs it up; 
He reaches down my drinking-cup; 
He winds my top, and throws my ball. 
I couldn't get along at all 
Without this little serving-man 
Who helps me out in every plan. 

The other sympathizes, too, 

But is not half so quick to do. 

Some things he does quite well, but my! 

Some others he won't even try. 

He will not split the kindling-wood, 

And yet, he is so very good 

He holds it while the other chops. 

He also helps him wind my tops; 

But spin them? He can't spin at all. 

You ought to see him throw a ball! 

Just like a girl! And — it's a shame, 

But he can hardly write his name. 



(58) 







=00= 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 





And yet, these serving-men are twins, 

And look as like as two new pins. 

I think, perhaps, you'll understand 

If you should know their name. It's Hand, 

And one, you know, is Right and deft; 

And one, of course, is slow and Left. 

And yet, you know, I often find 
That if I'm calm with Left, and kind, 
He'll do a lot of things, although 
He's awkward and a little slow; 
And so I often think, perhaps, 
He's much like me, and other chaps, 
Who know enough to do our part, 
But some quick fellovr, extra smart, 
Jumps in and does it first, and so 
We just get used to being slow. 
And that's the way we don't get trained, 
Because, perhaps, we're just left-brained! 



(59) 



\V 



iXL 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 





AT THE CONCERT. 

YESTERDAY papa asked me did It want to go 
Out wif him. Papa he calls me "It," you 
know, 
And I says "Hm-hm!" 'cause "Hm-hm" means 

"Yes," 
And papa he looks at me and he says, "I guess 
It can go all right. That's a awful dress, 
But Its coat will cover it up and Its hat 
Will cover Its hair, so we needn't comb that. 
If I'm good enough, why, I guess It'll do," 
He says, and he went right out — and me, too. 

Yesterday we rode and we rode and papa he 
Give me a penny, but 'twasn't fer me, 
'Cause a man wif a cap on he took it away 
When papa says, "This feller's going to pay." 
And I pushed the ringer that stops the car 
When you want to get off where the thee-ter are. 
And I give 'nother penny where the man peeks 

through 
And he let papa in — and he let me, too. 



Yesterday a lot of mens, they blew 
On a horn and a drum, like I like to do, 
And they blew and they blew and made more noise 
Than free, four, forty hundred boys. 
And a man — their papa I guess he wuz — 
He shook a stick at 'em — like my pa does. 
(60) 



JX±= 




And the more that he shook why the worser they 

blew. 
They knew he was their papa — and I did, too. 

Yesterday a mamma come out then and I said 

Was her mamma gettin' her fixed fer bed? 

'Cause her dress was off her, and papa says, "Look 

And you'll see," and the papa-man shook 

His stick at her, like he done it before, 

And she sauced him back and he done it some more. 

And the mens with the horns and the drums they 

blew. 
And she just hollered! — and I did, too. 
Yesterday papa says, "Ssh! don't you know 
You mustn't 'terrup' the lady so?" 
And I says, "No, papa, I don't see 
Why I mustn't. .Ain't she 'terruptin' me?" 
And papa laughs and says, "Well, you're the worst." 
And I says, "Anyway, she hollered first." 
And ever'body was so glad when she got through 
That they just pat-a-caked — and I did, too. 

Yesterday papa he says, "Here! 
Take that and stop your mouth, now, that's a dear!" 
And he gimme chawk-late candy 'and I eat 
A lot and spread the rest out on the seat, 
And then a lady wif a white dress on, she come 
A-scrougin' in and sat right down on thum! 
And papa grabbed me up and he says, "Whew! 
I'm glad we got away alive !" — and I was, too. 
<6i) 



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(( 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT, 




£j 




MRS. SANTA CLAUS. 

HOW on Earth did the fiction grow 
That Santa Claus is a man? Ho, ho! 
Santa Claus is a woman. There! 
I make the assertion fair and square 
And you can blazon it everywhere. 

How do I know that the thing is true? 
'Tis simple enough. I'll leave it to you. 
Who knows what you want for Christmas? 
Is it a man who goes away 
Right after breakfast and stays all day? 



Say! 



Or is it a woman who's always by 

With the light of love in her watching eye? 

Why, a Santa Claus man would bring white rats 

To a girl whose chief delight was cats, 

And books to a boy who wanted bats! 

And the Christmas stocking — can you dream 
That a man conceived that clever scheme? 
A man would have got a clumsy box 
And bothered with nails and screws and locks, 
Or, at the best, would have hung up socks. 



(62) 



£>Q= 




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And then the name. Who ever heard 
Of a man named "Santy?" It's absurd. 
But every one knows how little folks name 
A dear friend "Auntie," just the same 
As though they really had kinship's claim. 

And so it happened that people came 
To think 'twas really her given name; 
And this, by a natural error was 
Corrupted to "Santie" just because 
She was known as "Mrs. Auntie Claus." 



(63) 




u 



=Da 




INDIRECT DISCOURSE. 

WHEN I was borned, I wasn't nothin' but 
A little baby. Was my eyes shut 
Like kitty-babies? Papa, will you buy 
A skitching-rope en chatelaine-pony fer my 
Birthday? En a paint-brush, too? 
Wolves can't talk, rilly, just like people do, 
Kin they? But mebby once they could, 
Er how'd the wolf say, "Each-choo-up!" at Ridin'- 
Hood? 

Is it to-morrow, papa? Well, why ain't to-day 
To-morrow? Yesterday, what made you say 
To-morrow 'Id come to-day? Mm- mm, I don't see 
Why. Papa! papa, can't you hark at me? 
Aw, papa, if to-morrow was to-day 
Does that make yesterday to-morrow? Say! 
En, papa, will you buy me a numbrella 
Like's on the groc'ry- wagon? How could Cinder- 
ella 
Dance without breakin' 'em? Was her sisters mad 
That used to scoff at her? Or was they glad? 
Why didn't she lose the other slipper off? 
Say, papa, will you learn me how to scoff? 



(64) 



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What was I when I wasn't borned? Are dead 
Folks folks, or are they un-borned? Aunt Lou said 
'At I'd be dead, too, sometime. I'll be mad 
Ef I'm dead. Well, what makes folks sad 
If ever'body dies? Does God make 'em dead? 
When Aunt Lou comes, can I sleep in your bed? 
My room's the spare room when folks come to visit. 
It isn't nice of God to make folks dead folks, is it? 



(65) 



1 



DQ= 



i. 




THE MOO-COW-MOO. 

MY pa held me up to the moo-cow-moo 
So clost I could almost touch, 
En I fed him a couple of times, or two, 
En I wasn't a fraid-cat much. 

But ef my papa goes into the house, 

En mamma, she goes in, too, 
I just keep still, like a little mouse, 

Fer the moo-cow-moo might moo! 

The moo-cow-moo's got a tail like a rope 
En its raveled down where it grows, 

En it's just like feeling a piece of soap 
All over the moo-cow's nose. 

En the moo-cow-moo has lots of fun 

Just swinging his tail about; 
En he opens his mouth and then I run— 

'Cause that's where the moo comes out. 

En the moo-cow-moo's got deers on his head 
En his eyes stick out o' their place, 

En the nose o' the moo-cow-moo is spread 
All-over the end of his face. 



(66) 



=oa 





En his feet is nothing but finger-nails 
En his mamma don't keep 'em cut, 

En he gives folks milk in water-pails 
Ef he don't keep his handles shut. 

'Cause ef you er me pulls the handles, why 
The moo-cow-moo says it hurts, 

But the hired man he sits down clost by 
En squirts en squirts en squirts! 



(67) 



u?= 



=DQ= 




THE HEN. 

WE got a hen, we have, en he lays eggs! 
He's lame, because he only has two legs; 
His front legs are just feathers, en he flies 
If you chas him. Anyhow, he tries, 
En flops hisself away up in the air 
En falls up the back fence, er anywhere. 

We got a claw-cat en he's got four legs, 

But he's so lazy he won't lay no eggs 

Ner nothin'. He flies up the bark 

Of trees, en nights when it's all dark 

He stays out doors en hollers like he's cryin', 

En I p'tend to suster he's a lion 

A-seekin' round to eat us in our bed, 

Till we get scared en cover up our head. 

Our chicky-hen has got two tooths that sticks 
Out of the front end of his face en picks 
Up worms en bugs en things, en then 
He swallers 'em. Glad I ain't a hen 
En eat old, nasty worms. En I bet 
I'm glad I ain't a worm, too, to be et! 



Our claw-cat he can't rilly fly, bicause 
He's got to have a tree to put his claws, 
But if he was a robin he could fly 
Clear to the moon, 'way up-stairs in the sky. 

(68) 



=oa 




A rooster ain't a hen. He just p'tends 

To be. He's got a feather-duster where he ends, 

En p'raps it gets made over when he's done 

With it, 'cause our old hen has got a wore-out one! 



(69) 







DCL 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 





WHEN FOLKS COME T'OUR HOUSE. 

VER' one 't comes t'our house talks just the 
same. 

"Hullo, li'l girl, they say, "en what's your 
name?" 
"Why, what a pritty name!" they say, en then 
Bimeby they ast me what's my name again. 
En then, when I feel silly for thum, why 
They say, "Oh, dear, I do believe it's shy." 

Then, mebby, affer while, they ast me, "P'raps 
I'd like to come en sit up on their laps," 
En when I say "Uh-uh!" they coax en coax, 
As if I ought to want to sit on folks. 

En then they ast how old am I, en "Oo!" 
They say en lift me like it hurts thum to. 
En what a nice, big girl I am, as tho, 
Bigness is niceness, 'cause it isn't so, 
'Cause if it was, there's lots of folks would be 
As nicer as my mama is — or me. 

En then they stick their fingers in me — there 
En pat me on the head en muss my hair 
En say I got my papa's forrid, but 
If I do things to thum, pa says "Tut, tut, 
I mustn't!" en asts me "Can't I see 
Manners in folks is imperdence in me." 



(70) 



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=£0= 




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En then they ast me how'd I like to come 

En leave my papa's home en live with thum? 

En one day Mr. Fred who comes to take 

My aunt to thee-ters en who eats more cake 

Than I get ever' supper-time, when he 

Is ast by her en ma to stay to tea, 

He ast me that, en I says, "No, I can't, 

But if you want some one reel much, why ast my 

aunt." 
En then Aunt Lou en him they both got red 
En mama says, "Come, dear, it's time for bed." 



(7i) 





=90, 




THE LINGUISTS. 

WHEN you say "Silver plate," that's when 
You're Frence 'n' sayin' "If you please," en 
then 
Ef you're a German, why you talk reel plain 
En p'lite en answer "Thank you," en that's "Donkey- 
chain." 

"Leave her, Dick," means "I love you." Sister, she 

Says 'tisn't "Leave her, Dick," it's "Lee-bee-dee," 

But that's silly. German's hard fer her, 

But Frence is easy. She says "Weemy-sir," 

Fer "Yes, sir," just as nice, en says, "No, ma'am," 

But that ain't "Weemy-sir," it's "Weemy-dam." 

Language is funny, ain't it? But it's awful pritty. 
"Mercy" is Frence, en it means "Thanks," but "Pity" 
Is German en means "Please." En "See" en "Do" 
Are just the same, 'cause both of them mean "You." 

When you meet folks in Frence, you always say 
"Be sure," because that means "Good day." 
But once we spoke a German dialogue 
En then "Good day" was only "Gut-and-dog." 

En "Come-on-seven-tail" means "How de do," 
Er some folks say "Come on, you party, you." 



(72) 



u 



-JXL 



n 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 




Sister she says that to be reel p'lite 

Commee voo portee voo is mostest right, 

But that ain't language. You must say reel words 

When you're a-talkin', 'relse you're just like birds 

That say things, but can't talk. I'm so good 

Frence, 
Bicause I always listen fer the sense, 
But sister she's the biggest goose you ever saw 
En always answers "Jemrie* come prong pa!" 



in 



(73) 



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JXL 




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i, 



THE PAPA-DOLLY. 

EF my papa was a dolly, tell you what 
He'd have lots o' things 'at he ain't got, 
'Cause I'd go down town en buy a sled 
En a trumpet en a dolly's bed 
En give 'em to him. Bet I would 
Ef my papa was a dolly en I could. 
Course, ef he was dist a dolly, mebbe he 
Couldn't use 'em en would give 'em back to me. 

Ef my papa was a dolly, I'd dist buy 
The biggest cake fer him 'at ever I 
Could find, en I'd put jelly on it, too, 
En jam wif sugar on to git soaked through 
En taste nice. En I'd take en slop 
Some honey on, en m'lasses on the top 
Wif heaps o' frostin' on to make it sweet 
En then my pa en me 'Id eat en eat 
En eat. Course though ef papa'd be 
My doll, he'd give his part to me. 

Ef my papa was a dolly sure, I'd dress 
Him in a yallow hat, er pink, I guess, 
Wif green twousers en red slippers, so he'd look 
Like the pitchers in my Giunt Book. 
But ef he was a dolly, I don't s'pose 
He'd care a bit ef he had pritty clo'es 
Er didn't. En then, mebbe, — mebbe ef 
He didn't, I'd dist wear 'em my own se'f ! 
(74) 






=ca 




THE SHAVE STORE. 

YESTERDAY, papa says "Will it behave, 
If I should take it while I get a shave?" 
S N' I says "Yes," as load as I could talk, 
So me en he we went out for a walk 
Clear to the Shave Store. En then I sat there 
En papa climbed up in a dentist's chair 
En had a bib on. En the shave man took 
En painted papa till he made him look 
Like frostin' on a angel-cake. Mm! he looked nice! 
'N' I thought the man was goin' to cut a slice. 
He took a knife en wiped en wiped it, but 
He didn't hurt my papa. He just cut 
The frostin' off his face en took another 
Knife en wiped it on a piece o' luther 
En painted papa more, en cut en cut, 
En mussed his hair, en slapped his face en shut 
The old knife up. En washed his face, he did 
Like papa washes mine sometimes, en calls me 

"Kid." 
En he put baby -powder on him, too, 
En smelled him up, en when he was all through, 
The shave store man says " 'Bye, young lady, when 
You want another shave, just call again!" 



(75) 



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JXL 




IF I DIDN'T FORGET HOW OLD I WAS. 

IF I didn't forget how old I was, 
Do you think I'd act like I often does? 
' Do you think I'd swing on the front yard gate, 
If I could remember that I was eight? 

If I didn't forget how soon I'd grow 
To be a big man like Uncle Joe, 
Do you think my pa would have to scold 
'Cuz I didn't do what I was told? 

Do you think I'd set my ma so wild 

An' act so much like a little child, 

If I didn't forget I was half-past eight, 

An' would Miss Brown have to keep me late? 

Miss Brown said I was "a little fiend," 
An' I didn't know what the old thing meaned, 
But she said 'twas becuz I played so rough, 
An' it made my ma just cry — sure 'nough. 

If I didn't forget, do you s'pose that I 
Would ever act so's to make her cry? 
And don't you suppose I'd behave just fine, 
If I didn't forget I was going-on-nine? 



(76) 



=DCL 



(r-^ 



CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 




If I could remember, do you suppose 
I wouldn't take care of my Sunday clo'es? 
An' would I get mad at my Cousin Ben 
Without getting right away good again? 

Pa says he believes I was just bom bad, 
An' Uncle Joe says that I'm "like my dad,' 
An' Aunt Lou says she don't suppose 
I'll ever be better, but ma — she knows, 
An' she hugs me clost with a kiss, becuz 
She says I forgot how old I wasl 



(77) 





& 



£KL 







LEOPOLD. 

THIS is the story of Leopold, 
A man of the world just five years old, 
A little bit wise and a little bit bold, 
Who wanted a guinea of gold. 

Poor little, sad little five-year-old, 
Of woes of avarice never told, 
Too much charmed by the gleamy gold 
Wanted one piece to have and to hold. 

Papa might laugh and mama might scold, 
Toys grow tarnished or gray with mold, 
Porridge be hot, or porridge be cold, 
Little cared little Leopold. 

Out of the house the boykin strolled, 

And round and round the blue eyes rolled, 

Always looking for gold, gold, gold. 

Money was everywhere — wealth untold — 
Copper and silver and glistening gold, 
Greedily grasped and stingily doled, 
Cheated for, fought for, bought and sold. 

Across the counters it slid and rolled, 
And big iron safes looked cross and cold 
And stretched their arms to catch and hold, 
As a miser does, the gleamy gold. 
(78) 



^^ 



=DCL 




And who could have forced or who cajoled 
One piece from their grasping, clasping hold? 

Tired, so tired, grew our five-year-old; 
(Gold-hunting feet should be harder soled) 
And the big church bell the death-knell tolled 
Of by-gone hours, till at last he strolled 
Into a street of a different mold, 
Where nothing was bought and nothing sold. 

"Ho!" sniffed sad little Leopold, 

As if to say that to search for gold 

In a place where none of it round him rolled 

Were foolish in a wise five-year-old. 

He turned to go, when lo, and behold! 
Down at his feet in the untrod mold 
Lay a bright guinea of gold, gold, gold! 

But no one ever has seen or told 
Of a satisfied searcher after gold: 
"I'll look for some more!" cried Leopold. 

Now aren't we all like five-year-old, 
After something gleamy as gold? 
And perhaps the prize we hope to hold 
Is down the street we haven't strolled, 
So be a bit wise and a little bit bold, 
But don't be greedy like Leopold! 

(79) 




£XL 



r\ 




NO SHOOTIN' OFF THIS YEAR. 

(Remarks of a victim of the movement to curtail 
the usual festivities of the Fourth.^ 

THERE ain't no Declaration. Naw 
There ain't no Fourth- July. 
There ain't no "free 'n' equal" law, 
'N' Washin'ton could lie. 
They never dumped no Boston tea; 

It's fakey, all you hear, 
Fer pop says there ain't goin' to be 
No shootin' off this year. 



They talk about pertectin' us 

To keep the Fourth in peace; 
But ive ain't makin' any fuss, 

Ner askin' fer police. 
We ain't afraid of smoke 'n' noise, 

Er little lumps of lead; 
'N' why should they blame livin' boys 

Because some boys is dead? 

It ain't my fault the fuse went out 

'N' Tom went up 'n' blew; 
Besides, he's just as well without 

His extry ear, er two. 
They cut off Oscar's leg, but he 

Don't seem to miss it much; 
He'd beat us hoppin' yet, if we 

'Ud let him use his crutch. 
(80) 



=90= 




It ain't my fault that Willie blew 

His hand off, like a chump. 
I told him what those big ones do; 

He needn't 'a' took the stump. 
It ain't my fault a rocket flies 

'N' hits some him, er her; 
Somebody's got to wear glass eyes; 

That's what glass eyes is fer! 

It ain't my fault the stuff was bad 

They made Jim's pistol of; 
Besides the preacher said "We're glad 

He's happier up above!" 
Bet I'd be happier, anyhow, 

Most any place but here, 
Where they ain't goin' to allow 

No shootin' off this year! 



<8i) 



r 

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\ 



iXL 




A THURRU' REST. 

EXAMINATION'S over 'n' I don't care if I 
passed, 
An' I don't care if I didn't, fer vacation's come 
at last! 
I thought 'tould never git here, fer the days dragged 

by as slow 
As Davy Jones's ma, who calls 'n' don't know when 

to go. 
Pop says I ort to go -to work, but ma says she knows 

best, 
'N' what a boy of my age needs is just a thurru' rest. 

So me an' Dave '11 get up every mornin' bright 'n' 

soon, 
An' pitch 'n' ketch till breakfast 'n' bat up flies till 

noon. 
'Cause after dinner every day the Hustlehards — his 

nine — 
Is goin' to play a series fer the champeenship with 

mine: 
The one behind at dark has got to say the other's 

best. 
Gee! ain't I glad vacation's here 'n' I got time to 

rest. 

Then I'm a-goin' to learn the other fellers how to 

dive, 
An' rassle Billy Potter, best thirteen in twenty-five. 
(82) 






£0= 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




'N' after supper Dave 'n' I are goin' to have a race, 
Ten times around the block, 'n' if I win he'll bust my 

face. 
That's what he says! But he'll find out which one of 

us is best; 
I'm feeling pretty strong now since I'm havin' such 

a rest. 

There's goin' to be a picnic 'n' you bet yer life I'm 

goin'; 
I'm entered in the swimmin' race, 'n' greasy pole, 'n' 

rowin'. 
The sack-race 'n' potato race are mine, I bet a dime, 
'N' in "the mile" I simply got to win the prize fer 

time, 
'Cause it's a ticket to the Gym. I like that prize the 

best, 
Fer a feller needs some exercise as well as just a 

rest. 

I'm goin' to visit uncle's farm. He lets me do the 

chores 
'N' work just like the farm-hands do, right in the 

fields out-doors, 
I'm goin' to git a bag to punch, so's I won't git too 

fat: 
We're goin' to have a six-day-race — I got to train fer 

that. 
I want to do so many things, I don't know which is 

best; 
I bet vacation's over 'fore I get a thurru' rest! 
(83) 



JXL 




WILLIE'S LETTERS TO HIS TEACHER. 



I. 



(Being the product of a devoted adherent to the 

modern system of enriched education in vogue 

in some of our public schools.) 



DEER TEECHER 
My fother he said he'd give 
A quatter to me if Ide spel "sive" 
I kno that aint the way to spel 
The blame old word but I can't tell 
Whether its e-i like believe 
Or whether its i-e like receive, 
But there ain't no feathers on grasshoppers legs 
'Cause a grasshopper dont set on his eggs 

Last Saterdy ma sent me down street 
To get some potaties and eggs and meet 
And when I come back she said that I 
Was just a dollar aand twelv cents shy 
Cause I cant figger But I says Well 
Maybe I cant but I can tell 
How many feat has a catty piller 
And she curls up dede if you try to kill her 

Joe Miller he said that hed bet a cent 
I couldent tell whether "I had went" 
(84) 




to his 



JXL 




Or "I was been" was correctest, so 

lie be very much glad if youll let me kno 

Cause I ain't no good on grammer this term 

But I kno which end of a angle-werm 

Is its head because you taut me which 

Your lowing skoller 

WILIE N RICH. 



II. 



k EER TEECHER 

Fother don't think it smort 
For me to kno so much about Ort 
And Spiders He says if I 
Could rite and sipher and spel hed try 
To fergive my knoin some less about bottiny, 
Though he wouldent care if I wasent taut any 
He says that Gography fits my needs 
More better than spiders and all their breeds. 



But I says to pa I dont see why 
I should studdy ritin so much fer I 
Am a goin to rite on a type-riter when 
I git growed up like other men 
And pa kind of laughd and he says Well 
But a typeriter dont kno how to spel 
But I wasent stumped like he thaught I was 
Fer Ime goin to invent a kind that does 
(85) 



=00= 



=^D 




And I dont think errythmeticks any good 
Fer I cant figger and never could 
So when Ime a man you bet He look 
At the tables and ansers in the book 
And Gography too I think is snide 
Fer if I travel He git a gide 
And I bet I git through without a hitch 
Your lowing skoller 

WILIE N RICH. 



III. 



DEER TEECHER 
Fother he say I ot 
To studdy the things that was formly taut 
When he was litel He says to kno 
The upproxymit lenth of a June- Bugs toe 
Is all well enouf but spelins better 
And to kno how to write a bisniz letter. 
But you said Gorge Washintons letters tell 
That he didn't know very good to spel 

Pa keeps a naggin at me to try 
To umprove my ritin He says that I 
Cant rite no better than a hen can crow, 
But why should I studdy ritin so 
When Horse Greely, he couldent rite 
You said his ritin was such a site 
(86) 






JXL 




His note lookt like a dunn to a credditor 
And that was the reason he was a edditor 

I told pa that and I said you said 

Lincoln might of been bigger around the head 

If hed had more chance to go to scool 

And studdy accordin to moddern rule 

Pa give his sholders a coupple of shrugs 

I suppose he knu a lot about bugs 

He says Pa says so many things which 

There aint no sens in 

WILIE N RICH. 



IV. 



DEER TEECHER 
Fother said there's no doubt 
Ide learned all there was to kno about 
Common werms and things but he rather thot 
Backteary might learn me qite a lot 
So please wont you learn us all about jerms 
Mikekrobes and bassilly and other werms, 
So we can be bizzily kept emploid 
And scool life wont seem a acking voyd 

Bassilly is what gits in your lungs 
And they aint got stummichs or teeth or tungs 
But they eat till your lungs is gone and so 
You aint got enny breth left to blow. 
(87) 



P 



=DCL 




Trickinny gits into sossidge meet 
And then into yours And they eat and eat 
Till your mussels is all so et and sore 
You cant even chin yourself no more 

I love the studdy of bugs and werms 
But I hope youl learn us more about jerms 
Fer they ain't no use that I can see 
Except to be studdied by skollers like me 
They swim in the milk and give you things 
They fly in the air without no wings 
They lite on your skin and you git the itch 
Your lowing skoller 

WILIE N RICH. 



V. 



DEER TEECHER 
I now take up my pen 
To rite you Ime in trubble agen 
I thaut I had lernd all there was to kno 
Of werms but Ime scared it aint qite so. 
Last nite pa was teasin and after while 
He says with a sort of a grin and smile 
Wilie he says, and when I says What 
Says he How many feet has a tape-werm got 

Deer teecher think how I felt fer O 
How coud I tell him I diddent kno 
(88) 



1 



iXL 




At first I thaut that likely enougf 

Pa dident kno neether so I tride bluff 

And I says Why he aint got none at all 

He rolls hisself up into a ball 

Like you by in the stoar — of tape you kno 

And pa, he says Deer me Is that so 

A tape-werm I says don't do nothin but eat 
And so he groes stummicks instead of feet 
A angle-werm eats til his sides is sore 
And stretches hisself and eats some more 
And so does a tape-werm And pa says Say 
I saw a collection of them today 
And as near as Ime abbel to juddg they run 
From a twenty foot tape-werm down to one 

Teecher I was stuck But I says Why pop 
A one foot tape-werm could only hop 
And with twenty feet hed be off his feed 
Fer imaginin he was a centypeed 
But teecher I said it withowt no hart 
Fer reelly it give me an awful start 
To find I was ignerrent on a werm 
So please let us studdy on tapes next term 
Fer things has come to a pritty pitch 
When I dont kno werms Yours 

WILIE N RICH. 



(89) 



=00= 




A BESETTING SIN. 
(As Confessed by a Youthful Penitent.) 

J SHAN'T be bad no more, I shan't. I'm goan to 
be reel good; 
I heard a preacher-man an' he said ever'body 

could, 
Ef they jus' kep' a-tryin' and a-tryin', day b' day, 
An' ef they didn't try they'd go — some place I 

mustn't say, 
Er mother says I mustn't, 'nd so, o' course, I shan't; 
Don't see why preachers says it, ef another feller 

can't! 
But I'm a goan to be reel good. I shan't pull pussy's 

tail, 
Ner tie our nice, old Nodie to a nasty, old tin pail, 
Like I did once when Tommy Johnson said I didn't 

dast: 
I'd like to fix that feller, but my wicked days is past! 
I shan't git mad when baby sucks the paint off all 

my blocks, 
Ner spend the cent pa gives me fer the missionary 

box. 
I'm goan to be a martire, an' I shan't be bad one 

speck; 
Ain't even goan to cry when mother makes me wash 

my neck. 



(90) 







=DO= 




Most martire fellers wasn't much. Why, any circus 

man'll 
Cuff them lions 'round an' do it just as slick as 

Dan'l. 
Aunt Becky thinks it's somethin' great to live in 

sacks 'nd ashes. 
/ think that's fun! An' hair-cloth shirts! I bet they 

got the rashes 
'Nd wear them shirts to scratch 'em. Of course that 

Jony feller 
Inside that big, old whale, all dark like way down- 

in-our-cellar, 
He had a heap o' spunk, he had; but I tol' Aunty 

Beck 
He didn't alius have to go an' wash his dog-gone 

neck. 



That's goan to be the worstest thing, an' orful hard, 

I know, 
But I'm dissolved to do it! ef I do hate it so. 
It's funny hatey things is good, but I suppose it's 

true, 
An' things you like is mostly things you hadn't ought 

to do. 
An' water's cold, er ef it's hot, it's het so much it's 

scaldy; 
An' 'sides, it wets yer collar all around yer Garry- 

baldy, 



(9i) 



P 



=00= 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 




An' runs all down yer back, an' then the soap gits in 
yer eyes, 

Because the towel ain't where it'wa.s — an' then some- 
times I cries. 

But I shan't cry no more, though p'r'aps I'll want to, 
I expec', 

But when I'm growed, I ain't a goan to ne'ber wash 
my neck! 

But now I'm goan to do it, till I'm old enough, at 

last, 
To know what things I dassen't do, an' other things 

I dast. 
An' ef I have a little boy, as course I will, I 'spec', 
I bet you forty dollars that I'll make him wash bis 

neck! 



(92) 



=DQ= 




"ON THE JUDGMUNT DAY." 

THAT Jim Young's a mean old thing, 
What you think he done? 
He knocked my alley out the ring 
'N' grabbed it up 'n' run. 
An' it wasn't keepses, like he says it was; 
'Cause keeps is wicked gamblin'; knows it, too, he 

does. 
Why'd he run away for, if he thought tuz fair? 
He's a mean, old cheatter, now! but I don't care. 
He'll git ketched up sometime where he can't run- 
way; 
An' he'll git a lickin' on the Judgmunt Day. 

"What you laughin' at? It's so. 

If you're bad er naughty! 

Guess my mother ought to know 

'N' she tol' me 'n' Tottie 

Not to tell no stories, ner to say bad things, 

Ner hook the groc'ry apples, ner to pull flies' wings, 

Ner b'unpolite to comp'ny, ner walk the railroad ties, 

Ner to fight — espechly fellers not yer size — 

Ner never go a-swimmin', less she says we may 

Er <we'd git a lickin' on the Judgmunt Day. 



"Joey Smith, he's orful bad. 
He's much badder'n me. 
'Cause he's a steaterl Oncet he had 
Two birdnests from our tree, 
(93) 



=DQ= 



CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 



An' the little 'cheep ses'-^course they couldn't fly — 

Jus' was lef there, nakid, on the groun' to die. 

I was jus' as mad as ever I could be. 

I'd a killed that feller! but he's bigger'n me. 

I don't care. He'll ketch it. 'N' so'll Grace 'n' Nell, 

Cause they tol' I whispered, 'n' they oughtent tell. 

'N' I was kep' at recess, so's I couldn't play; 

But teacher'll git a lickin' on the Judgmunt Day. 

"If I'm good as sugar, say! 

Wun't I have the fun 

Watchin' other chaps that day 

When the lickin's done? 

Gee! I'll do it. I'll try to alius 'use the mat,' 

Keep the ten commandments, never plague the cat, 

Take good care of Tottie, not play games too 

rough — 
Be like grannie tells me, 'n' if that ain't good "nough, 
I'll jus' walk up, yessir, up to God 'n' say 
'I'm here to take my lickin' ' on the Judgmunt Day." 



(94) 



ItJ 



=DQ= 










i 



THE TICK-TACK ON THE WINDOW. 

WAS it many years ago, Will, that we boys 
kept Hallowe'en? 
I close my eyes a moment and there's not a 
day between. 
It seems as if Time grew so deft, his hour-glass 

faster whirled 
Every year we tramp together towards the ending of 

the world. 
Do you remember how we bobbed for nickels in a 

tub 
And how I got the most because my nose was such 

a snub? 
You remember those big apples that we lmng up on 

a string 
And tried to take a bite of during their elusive swing? 
But while the fun indoors was good, it didn't make a 

mark 
'Longside the wild excitement in the eerie, queery 
dark, 
When we used to hang a tick-tack on the window. 

Such pranks we played! The staidest gate would 
wander from his own 

And hang himself on some old tree without a mo- 
tive known. 



(95) 



JXL 




A string across the sidewalk laid a big policeman 

flat, 
And another in the air caught Uncle Ezek's new plug 

hat. 
A dozen door bells rang at once, a dozen heads 

popped out, 
But nothing but a smothered laugh was lingering 

about. 
A turnip was a treasure and a cabbage stump a prize, 
Which held a weird significance in owlish, urchin 

eyes, 
While a pumpkin and a candle were a most unholy 

revel, 
Till we felt a sweet assurance that our ally was the 

devil, 
And then we hung a tick-tack on the window. 

Some desperate hero clambered up the roof and 

slowly crept 
Beneath the bedroom window where the fearsome 

"old folks" slept. 
He did the deed and back he came from dangers 

worse than death, 
While we unleashed our lungs again and welcomed 

back a breath. 
O, the quivery, shivery ecstasy, as, snuggling in the 

grass, 
We pulled the string and heard the sound against 

the window glass! 



(96) 



£XL 




The quaint, delicious horror that came slipping down 
the string 

We knew was but a shadow of the monstrous vam- 
pire thing 

Which clicked behind the old folks' ears and flicked 
before their eyes, 

As they credited their tortures unto every fiend that 
flies, 
Except that little tick-tack on the window. 

Ha, ha! I'd like to slip behind a certain judge I know 
In some grave Us sub jxxdice, with talk of quid pro 

quo, 
And cry, "You rascal! What d'ye mean by sliding 

down that roof 
And sousing in that rain barrel? Don't deny it. I've 

the proof, 
The minister will bear me out. He pulled the rain 

barrel down, 
Or you'd be swallowing wigglers yet, unless you 

chanced to drown!" 
Ho, ho! those pranks of Hallowe'en. I almost think, 

you know, 
If the devil has a family in the engine-room below, 
God shuts his eyes on Hallowe'en and gives the imps 

free scope 
To hurl a cabbage stump against the golden gates of 

Hope, 
And hang a tick-tack right on Heaven's window! 



(97) 



rv\ 



£)Q= 




A CHRISTMAS KID. 

f 1% JT EMBER once, long time ago, 'most a month, 
JLVJ. * guess, 

Gram says, "Would you want more pie?" 
en course I tol' her, "Yes," 
En pa says, "Grammaw, don't you know the chil' 

has had two slices, 
'Sides the fruit en puddin' en a help or two of ices?" 
So I didn't git no more, en then I wisht, I did, 
That I could be a man en eat, instead of just a kid. 

'Member once — suppose it must of been the Fourth 

July- 
Pa was shootin' rockers off, clean up to the sky, 
'N' I says, "Lemme shoot 'em, pa," en ma, she gasps 

her breath, 
En says, "You mustn't let the child! he'll burn hisself 

to death!" 
En pa says, "Too bad, son, but we must walk the 

way we're bid!" 
En then I wisht I was a man, 'stead of just a kid. 

'Member once a great, big feller took away my sled, 
Hit me right here, on the nose, en it bled 'n' bled. 
He was 'most the biggest boy, I bet, you ever see; 
Reglar giunt, he was, twict again as big as me, 
En ever' time he passed our house, I run away 'n' 

hid 
En wisht /was a giunt, too, instead of just a kid. 
(98) 



£Q= 




CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 




'Member lots o' times I wisht 'at I could be growed 
up 

En drink real tea fer supper out o' pa's big mus- 
tache cup, 

En have a nickel fer my own self ever' single day, 

With no one sayin', "Course it's yours, but lemme 
put it 'way." 

En no one askin' where I am en what it was I did. 

But Chris'mas time I'm glad I ain't a man, but just a 
kid. 

'Member last year's Chris'mas, how old Santy come 

'n' brought 
Such a stack I couldn't tell half the things I got. 
A railroad, en a jumping frog, a wagon en a goat, 
En ma, she only got a di-mon' brooch 'n' sealskin 

coat. 
O, yes, I got some club skates, too, en went right 

out 'n' slid 
En was so glad I wasn't growed, but only just a kid. 



'Member once, one Chris'mas, pa, he fetched some 

things fer ma, 
En ma had went down town en bought some other 

things fer pa. 
En they give 'em to each other, en I was so sorry, 

'cause 
It showed that they was bad en dassent have no 

Santy Claus! 

V (99) 



JXL 



1 




It almost makes me cry sometimes a-wonderin' what 

they did, 
En ain't I glad I ain't growed up, but only just a 

kid! 



(ioo) 



"^J 



=£)a 




MONDAY IN SEPTEMBER. 

(Which is the theme of a strictly confidential letter 

to Mr. Peter Perkins from his +,riend, Mr. 

Buck Brown.) 



,ERE PETE 

I thought I'd write to you and say how bad 
I feel, 
Most like I didn't never want to eat another meal. 
Septembres come, and I don't need to tell you why 

bicause 
I know you wisht that you was dead or else that 
Teacher was 



I wisht thered come a sighclone that would blow the 

schoolhouse down, 
I wisht the Indiuns would come and try to scalp the 

town, 
I wisht thered be a war and I could go and fite the 

Terk 
I wisht that I was Pa without a thing to do but 

werk. 



(ioi) 



JXL 



CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 



1 




Course I can't do much reel work yet, but I could 

ring the buz 
Thats at his desk and boss the clurks as easy as he 

does. 
And if I can't rite letters good, I'm sure that I 

could tell 
A girl just what I wanted wrote, if she knew how to 

spel. 
I wisht Septembre was a month that dident have no 

Mundys, 
I wisht there was more Saterdys or maybe even 

Sundys. 

I wisht a Annerkist would throw a bom at Teachers 

face 
And when she dodged Id ketch it like I do at second 

base 
And fire it back at him as if he was a playin ferst 
And hit him plum between the eyes the second that 

it berst 
And then the Teacherd cry and say "you nobble, 

nobble yuth. 



(102) 






=Da 







CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT 




Youv saved my life and it is yourn forever and fer- 

sooth," 
Just like the girl does on the stage and then I'd 

swaller hard 
And say "twas but my dooty and I scorn to take 

reward, 
But lest my presents here should make my perpose 

grow inferm, 
111 bid you now a fond ado and wont come back 

this term." 

I bet a quatter thogh no Annerkist wont bring me no 

such luck, 
So hope this finds you feelin just as well as 

Your frend BUCK. 



(103) 



n 



o 



Q= 





CHRONICLES OF THE LITTLE TOT. 



"SANTY'S LITTLE BOY." 

IF I was Santy's little boy, I'd dress 
Up in a polar-bear-skin suit, I guess; 
En then I'd have a grea', big sled en go 
Sleigh-ridin' on a hill of sugar-snow, 
En have a snow-ball fight wif pop-corn balls, 
En have a reindeer horse like those 'at hauls 
The Santy-sleigh, en have him painted red, 
So's he'd look pretty, en jus' like my sled. 

If I was Santy's little boy, he'd fix 

A house fer me, made out of choc'late bricks 

Wif ice-cream plaster! En I'd have him make 

The floors of apple-pie en angel-cake; 

En then a fountain squirtin' lemonade 

En big enough to get into en wade; 

En raisin-trees out-doors, wif fences 'round 

Made out of candy-canes stuck in the ground. 

If I was Santy's little boy, I bet 
I'd have a Chrismas ever' day, en get 
Jus' lots of presents. En he'd plant a tree 
En ast my papa in, so's he could see 
Me light it up, en then my mama — ooh! 
I wouldn't have her, then, ner papa, too! 
I guess — I guess I don't fink I'd enjoy 
A bein' Santy Claus's little boy. 



(104) 



m 



^y 



p 



DQ= 




JXL 



^^ 




THE LITTLE BOY WHO LEFT US. 



I. 



THE little lonely birth of him! He made 
His way to Earth alone and none could aid 
Him with a word of cheer, 
Could reach his little unattuned ear 
To tell the waiting welcome, the soft breast 
Whereon his drooping little head should rest, 
His to command by noon, or night, 
In dark or light; 
The life-milk and the bliss 

Of gaining it through the long, deep-drawn kiss, 
The never-tiring arms, the cuddling croon, 
How could he know that all this boon 
And benison were his, when he should win 
The harbor-passage in, 
Should reach the port of Earth 
Through that tempestuous voyage men call birth? 



II. 



The little lonely life of him! He dwelt 
Cored in our hearts, yet only partly felt 
The love which folded him. How could we pour 
The rapturous lore 

(107) 




=£XL= 




Of love with which we bubbled to the brim, 

So it might also flood the heart of him? 

Our syllables and their strange ways 

Came in half -foreign phrase 

To little, unaccustomed ears, while his wee words 

Fluttered like baby birds, 

Untaught of flight. 

Could he know, quite, 

The meaning of the cuddling care? And did we reach 

Without the definite harmonies of speech 

The surest, sweetest tone 

To chord his little being with our own? 



III. 



The little lonely death of him! True, at the best 
All men must sup alone with the last guest. 
The sweet and sun-lit living room 
Is ever built beside the quiet tomb. 
Between them is a passage, not so wide 
That ever two may tread it side by side. 
Hard, hard! yet, groping down the narrow hall, 
The journeying one may hear our saddened call, 
Our cheering, sympathizing cries, 
Or the shared sorrow of the last goodbyes. 
But he, the little, wee one, could he know 
Our hearts were cloven with the woe? 



(108) 



vC* 



iXL 





The love which gilds the dark distress, 
The blossom in the wilderness, 
The one sweet in the bitterness, 
The human murmur of the moan, 
The music in the dirge men call a groan, 
He could not know. Alone! alone! 



IV. 



And is he lonely still? The dazed mind gropes 

Amid a labyrinth of doubts and hopes. 

The firmest founded faith 

Melts to a misty wraith 

Upraising, like a wild bird's cry, 

The fierce demand of "Why?" 

Nay, mock me not by saying He who gave 

Has cradled the wee body in the grave. 

God were not good to grant such Gift and then, 

Capricious, filch it back again. 

Life is for living. Should the lamp be torched 

To break it ere the wick be scarcely scorched? 

Lonely? Ah, only half I hope that he is not, 

Fearing that we who loved and love him are forgot. 

Selfish, I own, but Love's delicious wine 

Breathes ever forth the sweet bouquet of "Mine!" 

Lonely? How were he else? Does not the baby 

flower 
Droop in its tender hour, 

(109) 



£^= 




Transplanted? Thrives it in stranger-earth 
As in the native soil which gave it birth? 
Lonely? But in the sea of Loneliness, 
The great sea where the tide of death's distress 
Rises and ebbs and rises till the press 
Floods our own nostrils with its bitterness, 
In that sea is a Beacon and its flame 
Kindles the heart of man today the same 
As in the uncounted centuries which are fled; — 
Faith of Reunion with the Loved and Dead. 



(no) 



IXL 




EARTH-OLD. 

THE sound of a woman crying 
The cry of an earth-old pain; 
Her brow is gnarled and knotted tight, 
Her cheeks are drawn and her lips are white, 
But she knows her hour is buying 
(With a price of no man's gain) 
The right of a little breath to be, 
Of a tongue to taste, of eyes to see. 

And a new little life is lying 
And a new little voice set free. 

The sound of a woman weeping 

The wail of an earth-old woe; 

Will skies ever more shine blue and bright? 

Will hearts ever more beat high and light 

As if no babe were keeping 

From those who loved him so? 

O, the pain of birth brings a rich reward, 

But the pain of death — how hard, how hard! 

Will he never more cease from sleeping 
Under rain and sun and snow? 



(in) 



iXL 



ri 




OUR LITTLE OWN BOY. 

ALL the tune the boy could play 
Was 'Over the hills and far away.' " 
Or so we sang to our little own boy, 
As he bubbled and babbled his birdling joy, 
Perched on the end of his grandma's knee, 
(For wonderful cronies were he and she.) 
And never had aria, mass or glee 
So dulcet a charm for him — or me! 
So dulcet a charm? No, not one half, 
As he chorused in with his little bird laugh 
It tickled him so that a boy could play 
Just "Over the hills and far away." 



Where is our little cwn boy to-day? 
Is he over the hills and far away? 
Over the hills? Were it only true! 
Hills may be crossed or tunnelled through. 
Hills may be razed and their solid rock 
Be battered down by the earthquake shock. 
But what of the hills we cannot see 
Which rise between my little boy and me? 
Which divide the life which we know so little 
From the life of which we know not one tittle. 
That life, the birth into which is death, 
And being is nothing of blood, or breath. 
So much we at least may hope and dream, 
We may even believe, or do we deem, 

(112) 



iXL 



ri 




AT NIGHT. 

SOMETIMES when Darkness spread for me her 
robe of rest, 
And Silence guarded by, 
The Night-bird, Sleep, would startle from her nest, 
Stirred by the baby's cry. 

When night is deepest now, again and yet again 

I lie with wide eyes wet: 
It was his little cry which waked me then: 

His silence wakes me yet. 



(115) 



K 



=DQ= 



INDEX. 

PAGE 

An Arbiter of Titles 50 

At Night 115 

VAt the Concert 60 

Babykin-Boykin-Boo 31 

Baby on the Floor, The 27 

Bawl-in- the- Face 23 

Besetting Sin, A 90 

Center of the Universe, The S3 

Childhood of Spring, The 57 

Christmas Kid, A 98 

Climbers, The 55 

Cradlers, The 11 

Cradle Song 20 

Creepers, The 25 

Cruise of the Good Ship Little Tot, The 39 

Cruisers, The 37 

Earth-Old in 

Face in the Window, The 44 

Grand Lama, Jr., The 29 

Hen, The 68 

V If I Didn't Forget How Old I Was 76 

^Indirect Discourse 64 

In Remembrance 105 

^Intruder, The 14 

Janus, Jr 33 

Leopold 78 

(117) 



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INDEX. 



PAGE 

Linguists, The 72 

Little Boy Who Left Us, The 107 

Marvel, The 16 

Monday in September 101 

.Moo-Cow-Moo, The 66 

Mrs. Santa Claus 62 

No Shootin' Off this Year 80 

On the Judgment Day 93 

Opulence 17 

Our Little Own Boy 112 

Papa-Dolly, The 74 

Santy's Little Boy 104 ' 

Shave Store, The 75 

Song of the Socks and Shoes, The 35 

Spring- Cleaning Baby, The 48 

Superlative, The 18 

x Talk of the Two- Year Old, The 41 

Tax List, The 46 

Throwing the Shoe 13 

Thurru' Rest, A 82 

Tick-Tack of the Window, The 95 

Two Little Serving-Men 58 

Under Orders -. 21 

Unsaid 114 

When Folks Come T'our House 70 

Willie's Letters to His Teacher 84 



(118) 




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HERE ENDS "CHRONICLES OF THE 
LITTLE TOT" BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE: 
PRINTED BY THE DODGE PUBLISHING 
COMPANY IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK. 




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UtBAg?r 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

015 863 962 2 



